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“That was just an example,” Viola said.

“If any of my daughters are mistreated by a husband, I have instructed them to return to our house,” Ophelia said, fixing her eyes on Devin.

“I cannot imagine why—” Devin was beginning to look truly affronted.

“Because of your father,” Viola’s stepfather said, intervening. “I’m afraid there are few people in polite society who didn’t witness scathing battles between your father and mother.”

“I have a different constitution from my father,” Devin said. “In his defense, he regularly shouted but was never truly threatening; my parents would trade heated words until my mother lost patience and moved away, for months at a time.”

Viola shifted their hands to squeeze Devin’s hand. His face was inscrutable, but his profile looked even harsher than usual.

“Stop it, both of you,” she ordered, giving her parents a direct look. “I have chosen to accept Devin’s hand in marriage. He is not like his parents at all. He never raises his voice. But more to the point, this is my decision, not yours.” She looked pointedly at the duke. “You have always told us that we could choose our own spouses.”

“This isn’t a customary betrothal,” His Grace said. “There hasn’t been time to come to know him. We haven’t shared more than a meal or two. Have you discussed practicalities, such as where you’ll spend most of your time?”

“I don’t care,” Viola said, looking up at Devin. Her head scarcely reached his shoulder, so it was a long way up. “We’ll probably live quietly, perhaps in the country.” She paused. “If you wish?”

Devin looked down at her and suddenly she knew exactly what that expression was: hunger.

“I will live wherever you are,” he said. The truth in his voice rang in the room, and she saw her mother relax.

“To return to your original point,” Devin said to the duchess, “no one is going to print execrable trash about my wife and be open the next day to print even a Psalm. I shall make certain the printers understand that Viola is not to feature in any print, as it might result in damage to a printing press.”

“I’ll admit that never in these years of battling prints did I consider violence,” the duke said thoughtfully.

“You had no need,” his wife pointed out. “The boys shrugged off the broadsides. Alaric actually considered framing the one pairing him with Empress Catherine until Willa objected. Alaric is the duke’s oldest living son and Willa is his wife,” she explained to Devin.

“I don’t think of it as violence,” Devin said. “I will protect my family by any means possible, and the printers might as well learn that now. But in the end, it’s up to Viola.”

Viola looked in surprise as all three of them looked to her. “Me?”

“You,” Devin said. “I would like to avenge this insult, but I watched my father make decisions for his wife too many times, and you are the one insulted.”

Viola’s mouth shaped the word “oh,” but no sound emerged. Her mother was chuckling and even the duke had stopped looking surly.

“I vote for a warning,” Viola said.

“One warning,” Devin said.

She nodded.

“Can’t believe I didn’t think of destroying the printing press,” her stepfather mumbled, coming over and wrapping an arm around his wife. “All those prints about North.”

“North didn’t care,” Ophelia said, “even when they were comparing him to a Shakespearean villain.”

“North didn’t mind,” Viola agreed. She swallowed. “I do. I don’t want any prints of me sold, even if they’re nicer than . . . than that. I just don’t like the idea of it.”

Devin nodded. She had a feeling that the printing press—perhaps all the printing presses of London—were shortly to find themselves being given a ferocious warning, but she decided not to worry about it.

“Wynter, you and I need to talk about how to present your betrothal to polite society,” the duke said. “Or rather, your marriage, if you use the special license.”

Viola’s stomach was clenching again. She literally could not imagine walking into a ballroom. “The Season is over for me,” she stated.

Silence.

She looked at her mother apologetically. “I can’t do it. Knowing what they all will be saying about me, how fascinating everyone will find Devin’s choice . . . I just can’t.”

Devin took her hand. “If you will excuse us, Your Grace, I’d like to speak to Viola in private again. We won’t be long.” He had that trick of asking a question but assuming the answer.